


waterloo! knowing my fate is to be with you

by kattyshack



Series: knocking me out with those american thighs [2]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Crushes, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Fantasizing, Feelings Realization, First Meetings, Flirting, Humor, Masturbation, Prequel, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Soon as he calls it acrush, soon as he relents to Connor’s insistence that this thing he’s got for Beth has as much to do with his upstairs brain as his downstairs one,well… Then Murphy’s in a whole mess of trouble he can’t shoot himself out of.Christ (Hail Mary, full of grace), but his life was easier when all he did was shoot up mafiosos with his brother.(title from “waterloo,” by abba)
Relationships: Beth Greene/Murphy MacManus, Connor MacManus & Murphy MacManus
Series: knocking me out with those american thighs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647058
Comments: 38
Kudos: 43





	1. …and once more, for luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gutsforgarters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/gifts).



> a/n: hey mtv welcome to my crackship
> 
> for gus, a prequel to her seminal classic “and i ask you, friend, what’s a fella to do?” (linked here somewhere idk), and as such follows her timeline, aka set several years after the events of the first bds movie and disregards the second (for slutty reasons. ur welcome). both of our fics have the legs to stand on their own, but it’s probably more enjoyable to sail this crackship in its entirety. 
> 
> this will just be a short collection of scenes in which murphy tries unsuccessfully to flirt with beth, much to connor’s unabashed glee. we stan two (2) dumb vigilante boys who dress like arguably semi-sacrilegious trollops, forever and ever, amen.

Murphy’s not watching where he’s going on his way back from the bathroom at McGinty’s, but the frothy shock of cold beer over his shirt — and subsequently down his pants — sobers him up right quick.

“Oi, what the _fuck_ —” He swears, rough and just loud enough to be heard over the jukebox and the usual rowdy crowd around the bartop, only not quite loud enough to turn heads.

A good thing, too, because the high, sweet “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry!” that replies makes him go hot under the collar. Never heard a syrupy Southern drawl like that around Boston, that’s for sure; got plenty of churches, though, and this one’s made for a choir.

All the same, he’s got the presence of mind to snort at the words as he swipes at the splashed stain on his shirt.

_Jeez? What is this, Little House on the fucking Prairie?_

He doesn’t say as much, mostly because his brain about fucking flatlines as soon as he looks up, with half a mind to tell his assailant to watch where the fuck she’s walking, while the other half’s inclined to ask for a hymn.

Doesn’t matter. Both thoughts — not to mention everything else that’s been stored in his head for thirty-odd years — derail when he gets a look at her. He tries to blink it off, but the bar lights catch in the gold cross around her neck and, well, if the good Lord wants him struck blind, Murphy figures this girl’s as good a last thing to see as any.

Not that he’s inclined to think pussy shit like this, only the first coherent thought that hits him square in his half-arsed brain is that a man could drown in wide blue eyes like hers.

Hand to God, he nearly does the sign of the cross.

Doesn’t, _thank Christ_ , because he’d look like a right stupid motherfucker if he did it for no discernible reason, and she’d catch him at it. sure enough, because now she’s grimacing at the mess she’s made of his shirt.

“I ain’t usually this clumsy,” she explains, setting the pint glass at the corner of the bar and whipping a dish towel from a nearby hook. Her other hand comes up to tuck pale, humid-frizzy hair behind her ear. “Here — sorry —”

She offers him the towel. Not like it’ll do him much good, but Murphy takes it before he can cross himself, after all, or worse still, pull his rosary from his collar and count off Hail Mary’s.

“You new here?” he asks, wiping ineffectually at his jeans pockets.

“Yeah, first night.” She tucks her hair some more, though none of it’s escaped since last she did it. Nervous habit, most like. “I’m Beth. If you, uh, if you wanted to know, I guess?”

She offers a smile like she did the towel, only a bit more self-deprecating, but Murphy takes that a hell of a lot more eagerly still. Goes so far as to ditch the towel altogether, tosses it on the counter next to the offending (now empty) pint, and he matches the tilt of her lips with his own. Now that he’s gathered his bearings — easy enough for him to catch up, what with Beth being as embarrassed as she is — well, he can be charming if he wants, and this girl makes him _want_.

Hit him like a fucking lightning strike but, hey, the Lord works in mysterious ways, right?

And if _mysterious ways_ happen to involve a freckle-legged blonde with eyes he’d like to see well and truly dilated in the dim light of his bedroom — or the stairwell up to his flat, the alley behind the pub, hell, the bathroom in this place’ll do in a pinch — well, Murphy’s happy to keep rolling out of bed for Sunday mass.

“Like to know all sorts of things,” he tells her. Makes a bit of a show of giving her thighs a once-over (or twice-over, but who’s counting?). “Reckon your name’ll do for now.”

He’s a little surprised when she snorts at that. Rolls her eyes, even. He’s not _discouraged_ , mind — nah, few things have the fortitude to throw a MacManus for a loop like that — just surprised, because he’d expected a blush or a titter or something else befitting a girl as nervous as she seemed to be a minute ago.

Known her for sixty-odd seconds, and already she’s keeping him on his toes. Murphy likes that.

“Real clever,” Beth congratulates him. Murphy opts to take it as congratulations, anyway. “Look, I gotta get back to work before I get fired —”

“Doc’s not gonna sack you.” Even if the old man wasn’t too decent to do that over a spilled pint, Murphy’d make damn sure this girl stayed on the payroll. He’d like to see quite a bit more of her, wouldn’t he?

“Maybe not,” Beth agrees with a little back-and-forth tilt of her head. Her ponytail swishes lazily from one side to the other, and Murphy watches its progress like a cat with a string it wants to snap at. “But I got tables that’d probably appreciate it if I didn’t go wastin’ their drinks on perfectly good pairs of jeans.”

“Aye, s’pose you might.” Christ, he’s got to share her now? Fair point, waitressing and all, but then, Murphy’s never been big on playing fair. “Well, when you’re done with them, why don’t you swing back up by the bar for me, then?”

“Think Doc’s working the bar.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll tell him to fuck off,” Murphy says offhandedly, because it’s not like Connor hasn’t said worse to the man. Doc’ll give it back good as he gets.

Beth bites back a laugh. He can hear it in that church choir voice of hers when she asks, “You really talk to your bartender like that?”

Another fair point, but he shrugs it off because he can. He pulls his wallet from his pocket, counts out a tip and hands it over.

“Guinness, me and my brother.” Best to get Connor in on this, else the fucker’s gonna make his night a living hell over this girl. “Keep the tap flowing for us, alright, love, and I promise to play nice.”

He taps her knuckles with the roll of bills, and grins when she snatches it like he’s irritating her. But she’s smiling, too, so he figures he can’t’ve pissed her off too badly.

It’s like he said — he can be charming when he wants to be.

Beth flicks through the bills, counting them with a swift precision Murphy tends to save for his gunshots, and tells him, “Alright, wise guy. I’ll get your change.”

“Nah, keep it.”

She shakes her head, like she’s sure he’s got it wrong. “That’s an eighty-dollar tip.”

Murphy frowns. “Well, that’s not right, is it?” he says, because he’d been angling for more, so he peels off another twenty.

God knows why, but now Beth’s the one frowning. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what _I_ meant, though.”

Her eyebrows lift even as her voice goes flat, saturated with that Southern accent like she just lapped up a bottle of molasses in one go (and, _Christ_ , but does that get Murphy going like a jackhammer to the gut). “You meant to give me a hundred-dollar tip?”

“That’s why I gave it to you, yeah.”

“I spilled a beer on you.”

Murphy huffs a laugh. “You sure the fuck did.”

“And you’re givin’ me a hundred bucks.”

Christ, the girl’s a broken record, isn’t she? Murphy’s got a short fuse, but he finds he doesn’t mind having his nerves knocked around a bit by the likes of her, so —

“What can I say?” He grins, shrugs. Gives her another once-or-twice-over as he heads back to his stool, walks backwards so that he can keep his eyes on her. “I like a woman who can kick my arse.”

He winks, and spins on his heel soon as he catches the quirk of her — _Beth’s_ — cotton candy lips she can’t hide this time around.

(She’d rolled her eyes again, too, sure, but Murphy elects to ignore that part.)

When he reaches his regular seat at the bar, he doesn’t sit, but grabs his brother by the collar, and yanks him around so their line of sight’s the same.

“See that?” He points, rather emphatically, at Beth as she makes her way to a table with a couple fresh pints in hand. “God wants me to fuck that girl.”

Connor takes a swig of beer — _he_ managed not to spill a drop but, again, Murphy’s not about to question God’s plan for him — and wipes the foam from his smirk. “Does He, now?”

“Too fuckin’ right.” Someone at the table lights a cigarette, and the flame catches in the reflection of Beth’s cross again, just as the bar lights had. “And who am I to say no to the good Lord?”

“Fucked a fair few women,” Connor says, as he lights up a Carroll’s for himself, “but I don’t think either of us’ve ever claimed divine intervention.”

Murphy slaps him with the short stack of bills he’d taken from his wallet when he’d tipped Beth — to illustrate his point, see, when he says, “Wouldn’t be the first time it worked out for us.”

“Aye,” Connor agrees with a nod. “S’pose you’re right. That, or you’ve been reading Song of Songs again.”

“Oi, fuck you. It’s the only porn Mam would let us keep in the house without tannin’ our hides, innit?” Murphy reminds him, as if Connor really needs it. “I’ve grown rather fond of it, haven’t you?”

Another acquiescent nod. “And the Lord sayeth unto ye, go forth and fuck.”

Murphy sniggers into the dregs of his glass. “Gonna confess that one to Father Brady, are you?”

“Depends.” Connor blows a stream of smoke into his brother’s face. “Are you gonna confess your dirty, blasphemous thoughts about that girl there, you fuckin’ degenerate?”

“Might just,” Murphy admits, because he’s damn well _got_ to now that he’s tracing the curve of Beth’s arse as she walks by. Wouldn’t be right for him to lie, would it?

He snatches the cigarette from Connor’s relaxed grip, takes a long drag of it as he swivels left to right around in his stool to track Beth’s every move with avaricious eyes. _Absolutely_ he’s gonna have to confess, but it’ll be worth the sin to commit the flex of her thigh muscles to memory, _Jesus_ Christ.

Connor appears amused, at least, as he doesn’t even bother to snatch back his Carroll’s, just keeps right on smirking same as he did way back when his stupid fucking _rope_ came in handy. Smug fucker, his brother is, and the shit end of the stick’s that he’s got every right to be.

Not that Murphy’d tell him so, but it’s still a right kick in the nuts sometimes.

“What the fuck’re you lookin’ at?” he wants to know, though he already does.

“What the fuck’re _you_ lookin’ at?” Connor parrots, though _he_ knows just as well, too. He laughs when Murphy scowls, tells him, “Whether you fuck this girl or not, it’s all the same to me. Either it puts you in a better mood, or I’ll have a laugh when you make a right fuckin’ idiot of yourself.”

Murphy smacks him upside the head, and Connor returns the blow in quick succession. It’s a God-given miracle neither of them’s been concussed by now.

Small mercies.

“What makes you think I’ll make an idiot of myself, then?”

 _Now_ Connor snags his cigarette back, uses it to point out the beer stains down his brother’s front — specifically his jeans. _Of fucking course._

“Been all of five minutes since you chatted her up, and already she’s got you going off like your balls just dropped.”

Mother _fucker_. Murphy moves to wallop him in the chest, but Connor delivers another smack to the back of his skull before he can manage it. Makes his damn eyes water, _fuck_ , and he drains his beer to hide it before Connor can call him a pussy.

“Fuckin’ prick,” he mumbles into his pint, but like Connor gives a shit. And Murphy wouldn’t, either, if the tables were turned, so there you have it.

Connor claps him on the back — friendly this time, _brotherly_ — and raises his voice so the regulars around the bartop can hear, “Alright! Who’s got a bet on when my brother here fucks the waitress?”

A hearty roar rises up from their mates and, much as Murphy’d like to pop a bullet in all their stupid arses right about now, mostly he’s just glad Beth’s too preoccupied with her tables to hear this shit.

After all, if this lot’s gonna be placing bets, well… Murphy’s quite happy to play to win here.


	2. baby, what’s your sign?

It’s a good thing they already spend so much time at McGinty’s to start with, otherwise Murphy’s certain his brother would’ve lost patience with him by the end of that first week. Lucky thing Connor could go for a pint just as often, so he only gives Murphy a hard time of it when Beth’s out of earshot.

Or, _mostly_ when she’s out of earshot, anyway, which’s about the best Murphy could hope for.

He can’t deny his brother his fun, though — _could_ , strictly speaking, but Connor can always tell when Murphy’s about to hit him, so where’s the fun in that? — and Connor’s sure having a hell of a time tonight.

“Alright there, sweetheart?” he greets Beth around a mouthful of cigarette and a smirk.

He jerks his thumb to his left, where Murphy’s sitting, on edge as soon as Beth swung back behind the bar. “Murph here likes you in that shirt.”

“Christ, fuck you,” Murphy mutters, and smacks him upside the head whether he sees it coming or not. To his credit, Connor lets him.

Beth smiles, in that politely puzzled way she does whenever anyone says something halfway decent to her. Only been a few days, but it’s not hard to figure she’s the modest type, and not for the first time Murphy wonders what the fuck she’s doing in the likes of Boston.

She tugs at the hem of her McGinty’s shirt, looks herself over. “Ain’t any different from anybody else’s.”

“Yeah, well.” Connor takes another drag. “Reckon he’d like you better out of it, anyway.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Murphy swears again, aims a kick at his brother this time and Connor lets him have this one, too, likely because he’s too fucking pleased with himself to care about the ache in his shin.

The lights in the pub are on the dim side, dingy, but even still Beth’s cheeks bloom a pretty shade of pink. She fiddles with the stack of bracelets on her left wrist, anxious-like, but then she rolls her eyes — girl’s always doing that, Murphy wouldn’t be surprised if she detached a retina — like a defense mechanism, like she won’t be as embarrassed by what they say so long as she remembers that they’re a pair of fuckin’ idiots.

Which, y’know. Fair.

Connor might say otherwise, but Murphy’s always fancied himself an alright judge of character. Besides, he’s been paying enough attention to Beth to have _some_ of her sussed out, at least.

“Y’all are trouble,” she tells them, but slides them a couple refills across the bartop, anyway. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Might’ve.” Murphy props an elbow on the counter, surveys her through narrowed eyes. “Why? You got any complaints?”

“Yeah, you’re buggin’ me.” Beth grins, and Murphy’s not gonna say his pants go a bit uncomfortably tight when she mouths off at him like that, but…

Well, it’s a relief when she collects a few abandoned glasses and takes them back to the kitchen. Gives him a moment to breathe.

Not that he uses that moment responsibly, mind. No, what he does is round on his brother, foot poised for another kick if need be, asks him, “What the fuck was that, then?”

Connor shrugs. “If you’re not going to flirt with her properly, figured I’d do the job for you.”

“I’m doing alright,” Murphy mutters, but he slumps back in his stool because, no, he fucking _isn’t_.

“Are you, now?” Connor asks, though he damn well knows the answer to that, sure as Murphy does. “You just asked the girl if she wanted to lodge a complaint about your attitude. You gotta cut that cutesy shit, alright, tell her to show you her tits or else we’ll be here all night.”

“Like you’ve got anything better to do.” Murphy snorts into his glass, takes a swig and wipes his mouth. “And mind your fucking manners, would you? Don’t talk about her tits.”

 _“Mind my manners,”_ Connor echoes, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Listen to you, a right fuckin’ gentleman now. Mam’d be proud.”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t shoot the first motherfucker who said something like that to her.”

Murphy snorts again. He knows his brother better than that, ‘course, and if it were anybody else saying the shit they are, they’d both have the safety off their guns before you could think better of it.

Maybe that makes them hypocrites, who’s to say? But Murphy’s not actually about to go barking at Beth to take her shirt off for him unless she _wanted_ to be barked at, so that’s something.

(Something he’ll probably be giving a fair amount of thought to in the shower later, but now’s not the time.)

“Too right, I would,” Connor agrees, then grins like he does when he’s winding somebody up. “But you’re my brother. Call it a friends and family discount of sorts.”

“Yeah, well” — Murphy flicks his lighter over the tip of a cigarette, talks around a puff of smoke — “I’d still kick your arse, you talk to her like that.”

“That’s right romantic of you, Murph.”

“Piss off.”

That gets a laugh out of Connor, but he’s got the decency to lower his voice this time around when Beth swings back out of the kitchen. She heads to the other side of the bar, and Murphy’s got to physically swallow the fucking _whimper_ that rises in his throat as he follows the sway of her hips as she goes.

“Alright, so tell me something.” Connor mirrors his pose, elbows on the bar, and leans in so no one’ll overhear. Must be a serious conversation coming, then. “What’s it about this one? You’re usually a right side better with girls than this.”

Murphy huffs. He’s _not_ , really; he just never cared much before, just wanted a fuck and knew where to find one, only something tells him that Beth’s not the type who’d be alright by that. Something tells him he wouldn’t be, either, if he got his hands on her once; doesn’t think he’d be keen to stop after that.

“Said it yourself,” he points out. Bites down on the filter of his Carroll’s, chews. “I’m shit at this.”

“Fair point. You’re no Prince Charming, and we all know I hold the family record for getting a girl in bed — three and a half minutes, in case you forgot —”

“Like you’d ever bloody _let me_ —”

“— but it doesn’t usually take you this long to get to it,” Connor concludes, ignoring the interruption because he’s too fucking smug over his fucking _family record_ to fight about it any which way.

 _Doesn’t usually take you this long_ , well, that’s true enough. But it usually doesn’t feel like he’s been handed some God-given sign to take a girl home, either, but here the fuck they are.

Murphy’s heard of _love at first sight_ before, but he’s sure as hell not about to call it that, because he’s not some pansy motherfucker and, anyway, no way that sort of shit’s _real_. It’s too fuckin’ stupid.

Some might say it’s fuckin’ stupid to think God’s got a vested interest in his personal life, too, but it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Granted, this thing with Beth’s a right side different than taking out big-time street criminals, but who’s Murphy to judge what the good Lord sees fit to do with His time?

He can’t explain it, alright. Just feels it deep in his bones, and that’s gonna have to be good enough. He was raised to _believe_ it’d be good enough, at any rate.

He hasn’t got an answer for Connor, though, so he just stares at his half-filled glass of Guinness and shrugs. Says, “Dunno,” and the word sounds raw. He takes another hit off his Carroll’s before stubbing it out in a nearby empty pint, because Connor’s got the ashtray on his other side and Murphy can’t bring himself to look at him right now.

Not like he needs to, because his brother knows what he’s thinking and calls him out on it. Fucking _brilliant_.

“You still on about your cock’s sudden stroke of divine intervention, then?”

Murphy doesn’t want to laugh, but he does — no point in sulking when he could let it roll off his shoulders instead, and it’s just like his son of a bitch brother to lighten the mood — and shoves Connor so he teeters on his stool.

“Shut your hole. We can’t all get off with a girl in three and a half _fucking_ minutes, alright, some of us need the help.”

“You’re damn right you do.” Connor lifts his glass in a cheers to that, downs half of it in one go. “Might be able to try that one out on Beth, see if you can’t get a pity grope out of the girl. Seems like the type to help a sorry arsehole like yourself. Real charitable-like.”

Another snort huffs out of Murphy’s nose. “What, like she could petition for martyrdom if she let me feel her up?” He lights another cigarette, keep his fingers from twitching. “Don’t even know if she’s Catholic.”

She’s got that delicate gold cross around her delicate white neck every night, yeah, but that’s just a staple of Christian denomination on the whole, innit? Doesn’t actually count for much when he’s trying to pin down the specifics of her faith.

Would like to _pin down_ some other things about her — particularly that lean body and her pretty, braceleted wrists to the nearest flat surface — but it might do to start off with something a little less predatory than how badly he wants to fuck her seven ways to Sunday.

Not that he wants to _prey on her_ , fuck no, he’s not some _completely_ depraved perve, only he could understand that it might come off that way, if he were to ask her to, say, let him shove his hand down her pants after a week-or-so of barely knowing her.

He flicks ash onto the bar, shoots Connor a sideways glance. “What d’you think?”

“Whereabouts she from?”

“Down South someplace.”

Connor scratches at the scruff on his cheek, takes another, thoughtful drag of his own cig. “Baptist, most like. Aren’t they all?”

“Aye.” Murphy taps his cigarette again and puts it back between his lips. He nods, curtly and at nothing in particular but his own stubborn conviction that — “See, God wants me to fuck the Baptist outta her.”

Connor’s mouth quirks. “Think your prick’s too small to do much converting.”

Murphy claps him on the shoulder, cocks his head. “Still bigger than yours.”

“Get fucked. I’m getting the tape measure out again when we get home.”

Fucking _of course_ that’d be about the time Beth comes back ‘round to check on them. Her arched eyebrows arch up a little higher when she asks, “Do I want to know?”

“Likely not,” Murphy says before Connor can tell her. “Nice girl like you’d do better not to speak to us at all, you want the truth.”

“Yeah, but then who’d pay my rent?”

She pats her front pocket, which has got almost as impressive a bulge as Murphy’s jeans do whenever she so much as looks his way. Only hers is stuffed with the twenties he pushed into her hand as soon as he got to the pub earlier — _pushed_ , because she’d tried to shake him off from overtipping again, but the girl’s just gonna have to damn well get used to it.

“Murph’d still pay it,” Connor pipes up, like he hadn’t tipped her just as much. They’re both suckers for a sweet-cheeked waitress, so it seems. “Wear your hair down for him sometime and he’ll sign _our_ flat over to you, even.”

Murphy considers whacking him again but, honestly, that’s far from the worst thing he could’ve said and, besides, he really _would_ like to see Beth’s hair loose sometime. Preferably spread across his pillow, but out at the pub would do to start with.

“He’s got a point for once,” Murphy says. Leans his elbows on the bar, leans towards her, close enough that his sharp eyes could almost count the little chain links that hold her gold cross around her neck. “Ever wear your hair down, love?”

Beth regards him with that polite but puzzled smile again, cheeks gone a little pink like they do, but still she’s all professionalism. Girl’s really not tuning in here, is she? Sure, it’s not much of a line, but at the rate she's _not getting it_ , he’ll be all out of them by the end of the night.

“Not at work?” she says, confusion coloring the sweet cadence of her voice even as she keeps matter-of-fact. “Ain’t sanitary.”

Real proper, she is. Murphy likes that. Likes thinking about making her all sorts of _im_ proper. Good girl like her, there’s gotta be something veering on the side of naughty in her too, hasn’t there? What is it — the _duality of man_ and all that shit.

He wonders, fleetingly, if she’d share any of that with him. If she’d let him tug on the pale waves of her ponytail, wrap it around his wrist and _pull_. If she’d let him bend her over the counter, smooth his hand down her back ‘til he reaches her arse, smack it ‘til her skin tinges pink like her face does when he makes her blush. Wonders if she’d keen and whimper and ask him for it, say _Daddy, please_ in that sugary voice of hers ‘cause she wants him to take care of her and — God grant him patience here because he wants it _now —_ but he’d _take care of her_ , alright. Make her come every which way he knows how, and maybe he’d learn a couple more, too, just for her, while he learned every inch of her cunt.

Alright, so maybe it’s not so _fleeting_ , those thoughts, but he flicks through them fast enough — greedy and lustful and fucking _gagging_ for it — that Beth’s still smiling at him by the time he’s through.

“Don’t reckon this place’s passed its health inspection once since it opened, anyway,” Murphy says in an attempt to break out of the daze he’d damn near put himself into.

He shifts in his seat, eyes flick along the curvy length of her ponytail. “Reckon you could get away with it.”

“Right, and then you’ll be complainin’ when you get my hair stuck in your teeth. I swear, y’all don’t make sense most’a the time.” Beth rolls her eyes again as she swipes up their empty glasses, and heads over to the row of taps to get them another round. “Be right back.”

Murphy blinks, cigarette dangling from one corner of his slightly gaping mouth, because frankly he’s never met anyone so _clueless_ in all his fucking life, and he just —

He turns to his brother, to find Connor chomping down on his own forearm, face screwed up in barely-suppressed laughter, likely so he wouldn’t have to explain to Beth what’s so fucking funny because how _could_ he, really?

Murphy, for his part, doesn’t think it’s funny at all, thanks.

“What the fuck’s the matter with her?”

Connor releases his arm, and a stream of laughter peals out like the head on a pint of freshly-poured Guinness. “Reckon she thinks you’re full of shit.”

Far from laughing it off now, Murphy frowns. Not because Connor’s taking the piss — or, not _just_ that — but because he’s probably right. Fair enough, since Murphy can admit he’s been full of shit more times than not, but…

Well. He’s not _now_ , is the point. And he’d like for Beth to know that.

His gaze tracks its way back down the bar, where Beth’s filling glasses and chatting to another waitress. Her smile’s looser now, not so professional and a bit more genuine, and all the prettier for it. There’s something like a phantom punch to Murphy’s gut when he sees it and, damn it, but he’d like to get something that real outta her, too.

Which means, ‘course, that he’s gonna have to give _her_ something real in return. Bit of a tall order, that, but — fuck it. If he can army-crawl through some smarmy hotel’s ventilation system with his fucking brother and make it out alive, certainly he can manage the likes of Beth… whatever her last name is (something like _O’Hara_ , bet).

Yeah. He rolls his cigarette between his teeth, fingers twitching on his thigh. He can do this. 

…Right?


	3. seven deadly stupid things

“Here’s what your fucking problem is.”

Murphy raises his pint to his lips and his eyes to high heaven, bracing himself for whatever half-drunk wisdom his brother’s about to so fucking _generously_ bestow upon him.

“What’s that, then?” he prompts when Connor takes his precious sweet time. His eyes have gone a bit glassy but so’ve Murphy’s, so who the hell’s he to judge, really?

It’s not the cleverest thing he’s ever done, prompting his brother when Connor might be too pissed to remember what he was going to say. It’s not as though Murphy’s going to _like_ what he has to say, though maybe he’s just too drunk himself to consider the repercussions.

Not like either of them have a habit of doing that any which way, so this is rather par for the course, actually.

Connor props his elbow on the table — they’ve taken up one of the hightops more nights than not these days, because Beth’s caught them talking far too much shit than Murphy’d care for when she’s working the bar — and points an accusatory finger at him. It’s immediately annoying; Murphy’s got half a mind to cut it off with his knife, see if Connor wants to call him _Rambo_ then.

“This girl’s got you gone all seven deadly sins,” Connor says, “d’you realize that?”

Murphy snorts. The fuck’s he meant to say to that shit?

“I’m fuckin’ serious.” Connor spreads his fingers now, then curls them into a fist, leaving just his thumb out as if he means to tick the sins off for him.

And, as it happens, that’s _precisely_ what he means to do.

 _Pride -_ “Got a damn stick up your arse about just asking the girl out for a drink already, Christ.”

 _Avarice -_ “Poor thing can’t so much as walk past without you fucking drooling all over her boots.”

 _Envy -_ “So you haven’t shot anyone for looking at her twice, but don’t think I don’t see your hand on your fucking gun every time some poor motherfucker orders another round from her.”

 _Wrath -_ “Alright, so that one’s me. You’re pissin’ me the fuck off.”

 _Lust -_ “That one speaks for itself, doesn’t it? Fucking degenerate.”

 _Gluttony -_ “We’re here every fucking night these days.”

 _Sloth -_ “And it’s still not enough, is it, ‘cause you’re too fucking stupid to just get on with it already and ask for her number.”

There are a number of things therein Murphy could argue — because they already spent almost every night at McGinty’s as it was, for starters — but he latches onto the last (and probably least damning) one.

“Can’t just go off asking for her phone number. I don’t — don’t even know so much as her fucking last name, do I?”

“Oh, like you haven’t been trying ours out on her in that thick fuckin’ skull of yours.”

Actually, no. Soon as it'd occurred to him, he’s been calling her _Beth O’Hara_ , but for once his brother makes a fair point. Not that he’d be inclined to tell Connor so; bad enough he knows it for himself. It’ll be the fucking rope debacle all over again, and that shit _still_ pisses Murphy off.

It pisses him off, too, that Connor’s come up with a decent summation of what, exactly, his “fucking problem” is. Murphy doesn’t want to admit it’s decent, ‘course, but… Fuck him, Connor’s got that _problem_ of his well and truly pegged, hasn’t he?

And that’s just not bloody _fair_.

Because for all his own thinking — or _moping_ , to hear Connor tell it — over Beth, how to get a real smile out of her, Murphy’s been coming up empty. Seems that his brother got all the brains, or at least the thick-headed fortitude to convince himself that they don’t need to plan anything so much as watch action movies and emulate impossible stunts.

But, then, they _have_ managed all those stunts, so perhaps Connor’s got some actual brains, after all.

Murphy, however, doesn’t.

Hasn’t even got a stroke of luck to spare, either, it seems. Considering his line of work, Murphy never imagined his biggest problem would be some girl he met in a pub, but this is the sort of shit you _need_ luck for. But it’s been going on a month here and all he’s got for his trouble is this pang in his chest and a newfound weakness to his knees whenever Beth walks his way.

_Luck of the Irish, my goddamn arse._

All he knows, still, is that he’s got to give her something a little more genuine than all those lines he’s tried that haven't worked, anyway. Maybe she really does think he’s full of it.

But he’s fucking _not_ , is the thing. Not this time. And that should bother him — in fact, it does, to a point, but then he just wants to hit himself ‘round the head with the butt of his gun, knock his stupid arse out ‘til he can figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do here.

Murphy rubs his hands down his face, cheeks itching beneath the scruff he hasn’t bothered much with trimming, blinks away that bloodshot feeling in his eyes. Tries to blink away the oncoming headache, too, but he knows that shit doesn’t work.

 _Absolutely_ doesn’t work on a Friday night out in the middle of fall semester at the surrounding universities, that’s for certain. One thing Murphy’s managed to learn about Beth is that she’s an undergrad, which is how she and a couple other coeds have wound up in the McGinty’s pub shirts. Also how the place’s been overrun by idiot twenty-somethings with no alcohol tolerance and loud opinions about fucking _baseball_ , of all things, like anyone could really give a fuck.

Christ, it’s enough to make Murphy wish he’d met Beth at a fucking Applebee’s instead, if it meant he could frequent his preferred pub without wanting to smash a glass over the obscenely-gelled head of every college boy looking for an easy grope.

And even though Connor _just fucking said_ that the least of Murphy’s sins is that he hasn’t actually shot anybody over Beth yet, he still can’t help the punch of envy in his gut when she so much as smiles politely at some drunk business major fuckhead’s stupid joke.

He frowns at the nearby table, asks his brother, “Think she’d go home with any of those pricks?”

“Nah.” Connor doesn’t have to keep running his trap for Murphy to know his brother’s about to piss him off on purpose, but ‘course he keeps the fuck at it. “Reckon she’s saving herself for you.”

“Oh, fuck you. I’m fuckin’ serious.”

He grins, like an arsehole. “Got a crush, have you?”

Connor damn well _knows_ he does — they wind up talking about it enough, don’t they? — but Murphy’s not about to say so. Soon as he puts words to it, he’s fucked every way but the way he wants — which’d be with Beth underneath him, or on top, whichever way she’d like, honestly, Murphy’s not going to be picky about it. So long as he’s got her wet and willing to take his desperate ache of a cock, hard-up from begging for her when all he really wants is to give it to her if she’d let him.

But soon as he calls it a _crush_ , soon as he relents to Connor’s insistence that this thing he’s got for Beth has as much to do with his upstairs brain as his downstairs one, well… Then Murphy’s in a whole mess of trouble he can’t shoot himself out of.

Christ ( _Hail Mary, full of grace_ ), but his life was easier when all he did was shoot up mafiosos with his brother.

And the thing is, of course, that he already knew all this. _Has_ known it, right from the start. You can’t figure God’s dropped a girl right into your lap — metaphorically speaking, though, fuck him, but Murphy _wishes_ it’d been a literal thing — without accepting the fact you’ve got a crush on her. It’s just that he wishes Connor wouldn’t _say it_ , because then Murphy’s got to go and talk about his fucking _feelings_.

“Lighten the fuck up, would you?” Connor says, like he can read his mind, and sometimes Murphy’s convinced that twins can actually accomplish that shit. That, or he’s just that obvious, and frankly he can’t decide which is worse.

They both light up a Carroll’s, and Connor continues, “Beth doesn’t seem like the type after a one-off, does she? Think we do alright reading a woman by now. It’s how we’ve managed so far, innit, ‘til you went and got yourself a wee crush.”

“Shut your hole.”

“Just trying to help.” He flicks ash at an on-the-verge-of sulking Murphy. “So you gonna ask the girl for a drink or what?”

Murphy’s not usually one to waste good beer, but he makes an exception, and dumps the remains of his pint over his brother’s stupid fat head.

The shit thing of it is, too, is that Connor only fucking laughs when he does it. Christ, Murphy can’t even get into a proper fight these days, can he?

Black eye, broken nose, or none of the above, Connor ends up headed back to the flat earlier than usual, if only because he wants to get in some dry clothes.

“Give you some time alone with your girl” is what he says, though, as he snatches up his coat with a wicked grin Murphy’d like to punch off his smug fucking face, but Connor’s out the door before he can so much as flip him off.

So. Alright, then.

That’s how Murphy ends up back at the bar, anyway, nursing another beer while he watches Beth wipe down glasses. The night’s winding down a bit, and her friend Amy’s taken over some of the rowdier tables.

Seems about right, Murphy considers as he lights a fresh cigarette. Amy seems about as unassuming as Beth, but a right side less anxious, too, and he understands what it’s like to lose your patience, perhaps better than anyone else. The set of Beth’s jaw would suggest she’s about to snap at the next person who looks at her wrong, let alone whistles for her attention and calls her _sweetheart_.

Still, Murphy can’t quite help himself — “Alright, there, sweetheart?”

Beth snorts, so he figures his theory about her mood is partially right, at least. “Peachy.”

“Want me to kick anybody’s arse?”

Another snort at that, but she almost sounds like she wants to laugh. He’ll take it. “Nah. Just been a long night.”

 _He’s_ the one who had to watch a bunch of bastards flirt with her, so Murphy has to agree. “You’re tellin’ me.”

“Yeah?” Beth’s face softens up a bit, like she actually cares about how his night’s been and, the thing is, she likely does. “What’s wrong?”

“Could ask you the same.”

“You could,” Beth allows, “but I’m askin’ _you_ , and I think you’re actually too much of a gentleman to not give me what I want.”

 _Gentleman_ , huh? Connor’d said much of the same thing a few weeks back, only he was deliberately being a dick about it. Beth, though…

 _Too much of a gentleman to not give me what I want._ Christ, if only he knew what she wanted, it’d be all hers, as often as she wanted for him to give it to her.

Far from objecting to her character analysis — because despite what he’d do for her sake, he’s really nothing of the sort — though, Murphy acquiesces. Says, “Maybe I am, so I hate to break it to you, love, but I’m doing just fine now that most of freshman orientation’s fucked outta here.”

“Yeah.” Beth’s mouth twists into a sardonic little thing. “Doc’s not much for checking IDs, is he?”

“Not as such.” He shrugs, taps ash off the end of his Carroll’s. “You don’t turn a profit if you turn ‘em away, do you?”

“You don’t get arrested, either.”

“Doc’s not got a record.”

“Guess not.” Beth sets aside a stack of clean glasses, wrings out her rag and starts on wiping down the bartop. Her cheeks have gone a little pink. “But, um. Lotta cute girls in here tonight, too.”

“Yeah?” He hadn’t noticed, honestly. That’s not like him but, then, he’s been a bit hung-up, lately, on _one_ cute girl in particular.

“Yeah.” She clears her throat, casts a look around. “Guess most everyone’s headed out by now, though. So, uh, you goin’ home alone tonight, huh?”

“Looks like it.” Murphy shrugs again, not too fussed about walking the few blocks home on his lonesome. “Tossed a beer on Connor for being a right bastard, so he fucked off early. Didn’t wanna sit around doused in Guinness.”

Beth regards him with that funny look again, like she wants to call him stupid or ask what the hell he’s on about, only she’s trying to keep things professional, so she doesn’t say any of it out loud. Just looks at him and smiles in that way Murphy swears speaks volumes, all _Oh, bless your heart_ , and he doesn’t even mind it.

“That’s, uh, not what I meant.” She tugs at the end of her ponytail. Fuck, but he wants to do that, too. “Bad joke, I guess.”

Murphy frowns, but then — _Oh._

“What, you mean like, with a girl?” he huffs, and cigarette smoke streams out of his nostrils. “Fuck’re you on about, then? I always go home alone.”

Well, that’s not strictly true, but Murphy’s clever enough to keep _that_ shit to himself. Besides, it’s been the truth ever since he met her, so what the fuck difference does it make otherwise?

Seems to as far as Beth’s concerned, though, because she rolls her eyes, shakes her head. “Sure you do.”

“You see me walking outta here with anybody besides my dumb fuck of a brother?”

“I heard you were the dumb one.” Beth’s lips twitch, and — _ah_ , so she’s teasing him now, is that it? He can work with that.

Murphy’s own mouth kicks up into a grin around his half-done cigarette. “Take turns at it, don’t we?”

And — fuck, but then she _laughs_ , a real one that breaks her lips apart in a smile that could blind him, sure enough as the pub lights when they catch in her little gold cross. Thing’s a fucking hazard, but it’s a right good reminder of whatever God’s been trying to tell him since He dropped this girl off in his life.

So maybe Murphy doesn’t know what exactly’s going on or what he’s meant to do with any of it, but he’s gone and gotten that smile out of her now, and isn’t that what he’s wanted from the start? Doesn’t know what he did to get it, for all his thinking, for all the shit he’s endured from his brother’s smart-arse remarks, but —

What is it they say? _Man plans, and God laughs._

Too fucking right, that.

“You’re somethin’ else sometimes, Murphy, you know that?” Beth says. She’s shaking her head some more, but she’s still smiling, and it feels like sunshine after days of thunderstorms to see it.

 _Christ_ , he’s a pussy.

“Might’ve heard something like that, a time or two,” he relents. Has to bite down on his cigarette to keep from losing it, he’s grinning so much. “Sounds better coming from you, though.”

He gets another snort — third time’s the charm, right? — for his trouble, but she looks _happy_. Tired and still just this side of tense, but happy all the same. Like he’s soothing all the bullshit away just by talking to her.

Would like to soothe a few other things, too, matter of fact — the stress line between her brows with his lips, the shadows under her eyes with careful fingertips, the tense set of her shoulders with his hands — but all that can wait. Feels like he could be getting there and, maybe it’s just the beer talking, but that feels pretty good right about now.

Connor can take his _seven deadly sins_ and shove ‘em, because Murphy’s pretty sure he’s just seen heaven in Beth’s smile, and he doesn’t even give a shit if it’s only because he’s near drunk off his arse.


	4. punch-drunk crush

Murphy doesn’t expect Beth to _thank_ him, exactly, when he punches out some poor bastard for grabbing her arse, but he didn’t expect to be thoroughly scolded, either.

Not that this girl’s done much he’s expected. Because, reasonably speaking, he should’ve fucked her a round dozen times by now, only she doesn’t seem to notice that he’s been wanting to, no matter that he’s always on her heels with his fucking tongue lolling out. If he had a tail, sure enough the fucking thing’d wag right off his arse every time she so much as blinked in his general direction.

As it is, he _does_ have a cock, and _that_ damn thing’s been giving him a right side more trouble than a tail would, where Beth’s concerned. Can’t even order a beer anymore without it giving an overeager twitch right up against his zipper, Christ.

It’s only fixing to get worse, too, now that she’s shoved him onto a stool by the bar, crowded between his spread legs, and cupped his jaw so she can jerk his face from side to side while she examines his black eye and the nasty gash beneath the other.

 _Jesus, Mary, Joseph…_ Murphy’d cross himself for strength here, if he had the room to.

He doesn’t, not if he wants to avoid copping a feel. Which, actually… Well, alright, so he wants to grope her tits, sure, but if he did it without asking first he’d have to bust a bottle over his own head, too, just like he did the sorry fucker who touched her all of five minutes ago.

Less than, more like, because Doc shut _that_ shit down real fast. Not quite as fast as Connor and Murphy can kick up a fair amount of trouble, but the pub’s all but cleared out now, and Murphy’s bruised knuckles are twitching while he tries to keep his fucking hands to himself.

Beth’s mouth is set in a hard line as she studies him, but no less pretty for it. He thinks fleetingly that he might be able to kiss it into a grin. But then she’s turning that glare on Connor, tells him, “Sit the hell down, I ain’t happy with you, either.”

 _Lord_ help him, but a frisson of pleasure shivers up Murphy’s spine when he hears Beth talk like that. As if it hadn’t been enough for her to curl her fist in his collar and push him onto the nearest flat surface, and now she looks ready to kick both their arses if they so much as breathe in a way she doesn’t like.

Another round of Hail Mary’s kicks up in his head. He’s gonna need ‘em.

When she’s satisfied that Connor’s not about to slink out of here before she can get a look at him, Beth turns back to Murphy. It certainly hadn’t escaped his notice that he’d been manhandled and his brother merely snapped at, so all things considered he’s feeling well chuffed right about now.

It must show on his face, because that frown line appears between Beth’s eyebrows. “What’re you smirkin’ at, huh, tough guy?”

“Tough guy, eh?” That smirk of his twitches right along with his itchy fingers. “You’re the one hauling me around the pub, y’know, reckon you could challenge me for that title if you wanted to.”

“Only thing I’m gonna _do_ ,” Beth says, hiking his chin up so she can get a better look at his shiner, “is serve you nonalcoholic beer here on out if you can’t learn to hold your liquor.”

“Oi” — Murphy wraps a hand around her braceleted wrist, just to ease her back some so he can look at her straight-on — “that’s some stone-cold fuckin’ cruelty, there, love. Dial it back a bit, would you?”

“ _Dial it back_ — ugh!” Beth starts to echo, all incredulous, only to cut herself off with an aggravated huff. “Are you insane?”

Murphy’s rather sure she’d slap him, if he weren't still holding onto her. Pity those bracelets are in the way; he’d like to feel the effect he very well could be having on her pulse. Wants to know if it’s in the same league as his own, which has gone mad now that he knows her hair smells like citrus beneath the film of the pub’s old fryer grease.

“Don’t think so.” He cranes a look over her shoulder at Connor, who’s examining his nailbeds like he’s not got a care in the world besides his own boredom. “Mam ever test us for mental instability?”

Connor snorts. “Not likely. Don’t need a diagnosis to know you’re a fucking idiot, anyway.”

“Oh, fuck you —”

 _“Enough.”_ Beth braces her hands on his shoulders, shoves him back into his seat when he tries to make a break for it to give his brother a slap upside the head. Bastard’s laughing at him, too, now. “I think you’ve sustained enough injuries for one night, don’t you?”

“Not if Connor doesn’t shut his fucking hole, I don’t.”

“Always a man of reason, aren’t you, Murph?”

“Ain’t _neither_ of you’s got any sense in your skulls,” Beth interrupts before the two of them can carry on like they do. She tips Murphy’s chin up again, gently this time. He swallows. “I swear, I ain’t ever seen such an overreaction outta two grown men before.”

Oh, she _can’t_ be fucking serious.

He blinks, and the pub lights wink at him from their reflection in Beth’s little gold cross. Hasn’t got the time to wonder what God’s trying to tell him this time, though, because the girl’s clearly gone off her fucking rocker and Murphy intends to find out what the fuck that’s about.

He understands, to an extent, that she doesn’t expect them to be the violent type, thinks they’re too old for this sort of shit. Might be a bit of a slap in the face for her to find out this is _just_ the sort of shit he and Connor get up to for a living, and like hell is Murphy about to let her in on that. Least of all right now, when she’s already pissed at them for being stupid.

All the same, though…

“Fuck me, _overreaction_?” he repeats, more incredulous than Beth was a minute ago. “He grabbed your arse!”

She flinches, only just, and recovers quickly with a roll of her pretty blue eyes. “I’m _aware_. That doesn’t mean you had to break his nose.”

“Ah, give Murph some credit, there, sweetheart,” Connor drawls from where he’s leaning back against the bar, blood drying on his smarmy mouth. “Gave the poor motherfucker a concussion at the very least.”

“Yeah,” Murphy agrees, gesturing at his brother. “Connor’s the one who broke his nose.”

He lifts a half-filled pint to that. “Cheers.”

Beth frowns. “You got any head injuries?”

“Nah.” Connor swipes foam and some of that blood from his upper lip. “Loosened a couple teeth, but Murphy there’s got it worse than me.” He tips the glass towards them. “I wouldn’t go giving him another beer, though. Got quite the bump on your head, don’t you, you fucking arsehole?”

He’s grinning when he says so, so Murphy knows he's only taking the piss. Still, he touches his fingers to his temple and they come away smeared with blood.

He grimaces. It’s not the worst he’s ever had, not by a long shot, but he’s familiar enough to know he’s gonna feel that shit tomorrow.

“Ah, fuck.” He wipes his hand on his jeans. Bumps Beth’s knee when he does it, and — fuck, there goes his cock again. _Not_ the fucking time, Jesus.

Beth huffs again. “Y’all are gonna drive me crazy, I swear,” she says, mostly to herself by the way she mumbles it, and steps out of the cradle of Murphy’s legs.

It’s his turn to frown. Almost cinched his thighs tight around hers to keep her there — his muscles go as far as to flex on impulse, like his body just instinctively _knows_ that hers belongs as close to him as anatomically possible — but she’s already breezed behind the bar and come back ‘round with a first-aid kit in hand.

She pops it open and Connor eyes her skeptically. “Know what you’re doing with all that, love?”

Murphy, meanwhile, doesn’t much care what she’s doing with it, to be honest; he’s got a good view of the curve of her arse when she stands next to him like this, so she could stick a syringe wherever she likes for whatever _reason_ she’d like and he’d probably thank her for it.

“Yeah, I do.” Beth tosses Connor a packet of antibacterial wipes. “My dad’s a vet.”

Murphy’s ears perk up. His gaze flits to her face, too, to see if maybe she’s poised to tell them any more. And you know it’s _something_ if it gets his eyes off her arse.

 _My dad’s a vet._ That’s about the only thing he’s learned about her, besides her first name and the fact she’s got the sort of legs he’d like to lick between — though, fine, so that second thing’s not so much _learned_ as it is a foregone conclusion, but the _point is_ that this is the first personal mention she’s offered.

Huh. Maybe he should get on her last nerve more often.

Connor tears open his packet and wipes blood off his smirk. “Same principles apply to golden retrievers as they do to us, do they?”

“Well, y’all _were_ acting like animals out there, so I guess we’ll see,” Beth says lightly as she dabs some foul-smelling medicine onto a cotton swab. Murphy doesn’t know what the fuck it is, because he and Connor are more inclined to pour vodka on their wounds than medicine. Easier to come by, and you can have a drink while you’re at it.

She turns to face Murphy again, cotton swab held aloft as she cocks an eyebrow at him. “You gonna sit still for me?”

Part of him wants to say yes, he’ll do literally whatever the fuck she wants him to do, always, just _please_ let one of those things be climbing on top of her so he can pound her into her mattress, or — fuck, he wonders if she’s got a headboard? He quite fancies the idea of pinning her up and having his way with her, so…

Fuck. What was she asking him?

Right.

Murphy lifts his hands as if in surrender — like it’s some kind of fucking chore to have Beth practically in his lap, _ha_ — and invites her to step closer. “Alright, there, Doctor.”

“Little too young to have my M.D. just yet,” she points out. And, yeah, isn’t it something like a decade to manage that? No way Beth’s more than twenty, tops.

Not that he’s thinking about the logistics of medical school in the next second, when her mouth kicks up in a sardonic little smirk and she presses the cotton swab to his temple. “You can call me Nurse.”

 _Nurse Beth._ Yeah. Fuck if _that_ doesn’t go straight to Murphy’s cock like a sucker punch.

He can hardly enjoy it, either, not when Connor barks out a laugh like he knows just what’s going on in his brother’s head. Murphy’s wondered a fair few times before if their twinship translates to some sort of telepathic bond, but if he’s being honest with himself, you don’t need fucking _telepathy_ to know where his head’s gone off to at a time like this.

Well, Beth might, but even then Murphy doubts she’d believe how badly he wants her. Not that she’s got any reason _not_ to believe it, only he’s starting to get the picture, that she’s just got no idea what he’s after here. If she did, you’d think she’d’ve reciprocated, or thrown a drink on him if she didn’t want to listen to his shit, but —

Alright, so she did spill that pint on him a month or so back, but that was before he’d started coming on to her, so it doesn’t bloody _count_.

“Hey.” Beth taps him on the cheek. That frown line of hers has disappeared. Murphy’s glad for it, though he wishes he’d been the one to get rid of it for her. “You okay?”

Christ, has he just been staring at her this whole time? Maybe he’s got a concussion of his own.

That, or it’s the spearmint he can almost taste coming off Beth’s lips, riding off her tongue with every breath that flutters through the scruff around his own suddenly dry mouth.

He swallows again, but it’s all sandpaper and doesn’t do him a lick of good.

“Fine, love.” And, yeah, fuck, his voice has gone all hoarse, too. He clears his throat, distracts himself with a glance over Beth’s shoulder. “How’s — hold up, where the fuck’d Connor go?”

“Went to help Doc clean up the kitchen. Weren’t you payin’ attention?”

“Guess I wasn’t,” Murphy says honestly, because how could he have been, with Beth’s hands on his face, her breath on his lips, her hips tucked between his thighs? It’s a small miracle he can even speak to her up close like this.

Beth gives him a smile, not quite like she’s happy — concerned, confused, more like, but he’ll take it either way.

She turns to rummage through the first-aid kit again, comes back with another cotton swab for the cut under his eye. “I oughta take you to see a real doctor.”

“Nah.” He gives in, cups one of her hips and gives it a teasing squeeze. “Like nurses better.”

A flash of something flits across her eyes, but she’s swatting his hand away before he can figure out what it is. “I bet you do.”

“Hey.” He frowns, because now he’s pretty sure that _something_ he saw was erring on the side of irritation. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’.” Beth taps his cheek again, hooks her fingers around his jaw to urge his face upwards. “Chin up, c’mon.”

“Beth —”

_“Murphy.”_

He huffs a laugh. He’d been edging towards irritation himself — he’s got a pounding headache and sore knuckles and he wants to know what that something was he saw in Beth’s eyes, in that tic of her mouth like she wanted to give him hell but she won’t, because she knows about his headache and his knuckles and maybe she thinks he’s given himself enough trouble as it is.

She’s sweet like that, Beth is. Even when she’s rolling her eyes at him and giving him shit, so he laughs, and his tense muscles relax when that makes her smile.

He crooks one bruised finger into her belt loop, gives it a tug that gets her shuffling forward another step into his personal space. “You pissed at me?”

She sighs. She’s still holding his face, thumbnail scraping idly through his stubble as the other hand wipes at his injuries, and Murphy wonders how much blood could possibly still be there. The guy he punched was wearing a fair few heavy rings, but he hadn’t hit Murphy back _that_ hard.

“You just didn’t have to do that,” Beth reiterates.

“I fuckin’ _did_.”

That gets another almost-smile out of her. Another sigh, another roll of her eyes.

“I don’t think this conversation’s goin’ anywhere,” Beth says, resigned, as she shakes her head. Back to the first-aid kit, and back again with more medicine or what the hell ever, he doesn’t honestly know. “It’s alright, Murphy. I ain’t mad.”

“Look” — he curls a hand around her wrist again, feels it jerk a little as she keeps trying to clean him up — “I fuckin’, I worry about you, you know.”

She keeps rolling her eyes like that, they’re bound to stick sooner or later, but roll them she does.

“Yeah, sure you do, Daddy,” she says, so flatly Murphy can’t believe she’s paying much attention to what she says or what it does to him, but that — that just fucking —

 _Sweet Jesus merciful Christ._ He still hasn’t got room to cross himself, and he’s forgotten every prayer he knows, too.

He shifts on his stool, hopes to God he can hide the fucking semi pressed against his inseam because she’d gone and said _that_ and he’s absolutely gonna have to take care of all the thoughts it inspired if he ever wants to comfortably put on a pair of jeans again.

She’s still touching his face, Christ, she’s doing it so sweetly, his fingers twitch and he wants to tell her what a _good girl_ she’s being for him, wants to ask her what she wants in return because he’ll give her god damn _anything_.

 _Hail Mary, full of grace…_ He forgets the rest.

He needs a drink. Knows he’s not about to get one when he’s got blood on his face and Beth taking charge of cleaning him up, so he asks, “Can I get a cigarette, at least?” Throat’s already raw like he’s smoked a whole pack, but there’s no nicotine rush to calm him the fuck down, so —

“No.”

 _No?_ Murphy scowls. “And why the fuck not?”

“They’re bad for you.”

“So’s a plate of chips every night, but you still let me have those.”

“You gotta eat,” Beth says, all reasonable and shit. “Ain’t _gotta_ smoke.”

Murphy groans. Tries to slouch so he can sulk properly, but then Beth’s curling a hand into his collar again, forcing him to sit straight so she can take care of him. And, fuck fuck fuckity _fuck_ , there he goes getting _ideas_ again.

“Woman,” he grumbles, “you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

“Not any sooner than those cigarettes will,” she teases. And maybe she’s right — doubtful — but that just makes Murphy grumble some more.

She tosses the red-tinged cotton swabs and peels the adhesive off a couple band-aids, so she can affix one carefully to his temple and the other beneath his eye. Smooths her fingertips across them both, making sure they stay put while Murphy leans into her touch. Christ, has anybody ever touched him like this before? Soft and cautious, like he’s somehow breakable? Should make him feel like a fucking pussy, but it doesn’t; it just makes him feel like he wants to touch her back the same way.

A couple other ways, too, but he could start off soft, at least, see where that takes them.

Her hand slips from the band-aid down to cup his cheek — God, that feels good, he’s pretty sure he licks his fucking lips, but he’s too busy blinking drowsily up at her to notice much else — and she smiles. Still not quite like she did the first time he got a real one out of her, but he can probably chalk that up to the fact that she’s worried about him.

That does something to him, too, but he’ll think about that squeeze around his heart later.

“No more drinking tonight, you hear?” she tells him, still sweet, but there’s no room for argument, either. “I mean it, Murphy.”

“Yeah, Nurse Beth” — he grins, tugs at her belt loop again, looks at her mouth maybe a moment too long — “I hear you, love.”

He could still use a drink, ‘course, but he’s not about to deny the girl anything she asks of him. He’d go stone-cold sober if she told him to. Might not like it, but he figures the benefits would far exceed the sacrifice there.

His gaze drops down to her waistline. There’s a strip of naked skin visible now, uncovered when he toyed with her jeans, and he’s gotta swallow past the dryness in his throat. Gotta get his head on fucking straight, otherwise he’s gonna lose it entirely and lean down to lick a filthy stripe across her abdomen.

He still can’t muster up any prayer verses, but he tells Beth, “Whatever you want, darling,” and he figures it’s pretty much the same thing.

* * *

Getting back to the flat he shares with Connor is nothing short of a godsend. Murphy doesn’t know if he could’ve handled another minute alone with Beth without tossing her onto the bartop and doing several things to her that would’ve got the pub shut down on a myriad of health code violations. Not like McGinty’s hasn’t got enough of those to deal with, but Murphy wouldn’t’ve even tried to deny it if he made Beth come all over his usual barstool.

But even if her feelings do add up in his favor, well, Beth wouldn’t even let him have a cigarette after tonight, so Murphy doubts she would’ve given him the go-ahead to get freaky with her. He'll just have to save that shit for the shower, and fortunately the flat affords him enough privacy to do just that.

He and Connor got a new place a couple years back. Not much — sorta like the one Rocco shared with his old lady back before all this shit started to go down — but better than their bare brick walls, bare mattresses, nothing but a threadbare shower curtain for privacy. Least this place’s got an actual floor plan, a little more wriggle room so long as they keep outta each other’s hair. Which isn’t _often_ , sure, but the doors still lock, so that’s something. Neighborhood hasn’t gone to complete shit, either.

Not like Murphy’s concerned with the property value of the place, really, but he’s grateful for the solid oak or whatever shit of the bathroom door when he’s jerking himself off thinking about Beth.

He’s got the shower running on hot. Maybe he would’ve done better with a cold one but, fuck it, he wasn’t gonna lie to himself and pretend he wasn’t trying to get off. She’d had her hands all over him tonight and if he couldn’t do anything about it then, he’s certainly going to do something about it _now_.

Thing is, her hand on his jawline felt better than his hand around his cock, and if he’s about to get blue balls because he can’t get off without Beth touching him, well, that’s just gonna piss him off. Could kick his arse into gear, though, maybe force him to make a real move if he ever wants to come again.

But he wants to come _right now_ , fucking needs to, so he screws his eyes shut tight and pretends the hot water hitting his face is Beth’s warm fingers scrubbing through his stubble. Pretends the steam rising in the bathroom is her spearmint breath buffeting across his skin. Parts his lips to taste it, clenches his teeth and hisses when blood hums through his cock at the thought, fucks his fist and pretends it’s Beth’s warm wet cunt.

Christ, he wants her so fucking bad, this shit’s _painful_.

Fucking Lord have mercy. His fist bumps the cross hanging from his rosary, the beads wet and harsh when they smack his bare skin like an admonishment, like the penance he’s got to pay for jerking himself off instead of bringing Beth home. He should be working at her pussy, not his dick, should be making her toes curl and her back arch instead of winding up his own muscles. Should be sucking on her clit, not biting down on his bottom lip, but here the fuck he is, left alone and wanting her.

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…_

He braces his free hand against the wall, lets the hot shower spray soak his hair, his back, the way he’s fucking _begging_ for Beth’s come to soak his hand, his beard, his cock, whichever way she wants him to get her off, he’ll fucking do it, so long as it’s him who gets to see what she looks like when she hits her peak because he _made her do_ _it_.

The thought makes him groan, the sound shaking through the shower walls like an echo in church. He could make her shake, too, could rile her up whichever way she’d like and make it worth her while. He wants to do whatever it fucking takes to make her come, make her _his_.

_Sure you do, Daddy._

Fuck god damn it _fuck_. Murphy’s teeth gnash, his hand tightens, speeds right the fuck up when he hears Beth’s voice in his head. Christ, did she have any idea what that shit was gonna fucking do to him? Did she spare a single thought for absolutely _decimating_ his state of mind?

‘Cause, fuck yeah, he could be her goddamn Daddy. He could take care of her, get her off those sore feet and flat on her back in his bed. He could mark her up with his mouth, hickeys on her throat, her tits, the insides of her thighs — plenty of places for people to see so they’d know she’s fucking _taken_ , and a couple places that’d just be for him and her.

Swear to God, the next fucker who touches her is gonna get a bullet to their wasted fucking brain. It’s a wonder Murphy didn’t shoot the dumb son of a bitch who did it tonight but, then, sometimes you just need to punch out some stupid motherfucker with your bare hands. Shooting ‘em isn’t always good enough.

His hands are still busted up and bruised, but he works at his cock without any fuss, only that he wishes Beth was here in the shower with him instead of just in his head. He’ll make do, yeah, but _making do_ ’s not gonna cut it for much longer.

He wants to feel her hands on him again — those soft, slightly calloused palms (and where’d she get those calluses, anyway?), the scratch of her rounded, chipped-polished fingernails. Wants her breath on his skin, in his mouth, flooding his tongue with the taste of spearmint and whatever else she’s got for him. Wants to bury his face in her citrus shampoo hair, pant hot and heavy into those pale blonde waves ‘til they’ve gone as damp as he wants to make her between her thighs. Wants to feel those muscles clench around his ears while he laps up her come like water after days in the desert, like sacramental wine after years of sin.

He wants to drown in her like holy water and wash away every ugly thing he’s ever done — things that are right, _just_ , but there’s no denying the violence of it.

And Beth, she’s — fuck, Murphy bites back a whine — she’s _good_ , so good, she could be the one thing he gets in this whole fucking world that’s _just_ good, that’s inarguably right and holy and meant for him without any of the bullshit bloodsoaked baggage —

 _“Fuck —”_ Murphy swears, harsh and thick, the word echoing like his groan did, like hymns at Sunday mass. He comes just the same, harsh and thick and like sweet relief, white lights bursting behind his closed eyes like the pub lights that catch in Beth’s cross, like they do in the glint of her teeth when she smiles at him.

_Beth Beth Beth —_

His hands shake as he comes down, knees weak. His toes curl into the wet tile of the shower floor, hot water and come swirling down the drain while his chest constricts, catching his breath even as thoughts of her flick through his mind’s eye still.

Jesus. Jesus Christ, it’s never felt like that before. He’s never needed it like this, not now that he needs Beth.

_Shit._

Murphy rinses his hands, soaps them up and scrubs at his face, soaking his bandages in the process but, fuck, he needs to get his shit together. Because _no_ — no, he can’t be thinking this shit right now. Told himself he fucking wouldn’t, ‘cause he’s only in for trouble if he starts chasing any feeling that’s anything more than orgasm.

He wants her, that’s fucking fine, but _needing_ her? That’s a whole lot of something fucking else, and Murphy can’t handle that shit.

“Christ,” he mutters, and slumps forward against the wall. The shower spray’s gone cool against his back. “Bloody _fucking_ hell.”

Because it doesn’t fucking matter what he can or can’t handle, does it? He presses himself against the damp wall, so he can muffle his frustrated groan into his arms, and his rosary beads dig into his chest. Feels like they cut so deep that they shudder along with every one of his stuttered heartbeats.

It doesn’t fucking _matter_ , he thinks again, because it is what it fucking is, and all of a sudden just _wanting_ her’s the least of his worries.


	5. yours or mine?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: this chapter accounts for the 35-minute interim mentioned in chapter 3 of gus’ fic, as murphy waited impatiently for beth to finish up her shift so he could take her home and, y’know, pin her to stuff. *eyes emoji*

“Quit _lookin’_ at me, jeez,” Beth mutters — for, what, the third time now? — as she breezes past Murphy’s stool, hands full of empty, spotted glasses, on her way back to the kitchen.

Christ, but he’s never gonna be able to think about dirty pub kitchens ever again without repressing the urge to drop to his knees and bury his face in the hot humid confines between Beth’s legs.

Not that that second thing’s a new development or anything, only Murphy never thought he’d struggle with a hard-on over the greasy stench of chips, so that’s a whole new trigger for him, innit?

Wouldn’t _have_ to repress any of it, though, if she’d just clock off early and let him take her home. But Beth had been adamant that she finish up her shift before either of _them_ got to finish again — and there’s a certain sort of logic to that, Murphy supposes, but he doesn’t give two shits about common sense now that he’s had his tongue up her cunt. Wasn’t common sense that got him there to start with, so what’s the fucking _point_?

Now, his tongue smacks the roof of his mouth. There’s still a film of beer and fried food there — bitter and thick, hot and salty-sweet — but more than anything he can taste the pussy on his breath. He made Beth come in his mouth and he’d lapped it up like his pint before he’d gone looking for her in the first place.

With that in mind, well, it’s no small wonder he’s ready for another round with her.

“I’m not looking at you,” he says on a laugh the next time she passes by, glaring at him. It doesn’t do any good when her cheeks are flushed pink, and her hair’s mussed up from where he’d tugged on it in the bathroom, but good on her for making the effort.

“Oh, no?” she says, on the pretense of wiping up the bartop next to him. “‘Cause I’d bet my next paycheck you _are_.”

“Pretty fond of yourself, there, aren’t you?” Fuck it, Murphy tugs on the end of her braid again, grins when she kicks at his stool. “You let me take you home right now, sweetheart, and I’ll pay for your last half-hour.”

 _“Ugh.”_ Beth snatches the cigarette he just lit and stubs it out in the ashtray, for no other reason than he’s irritating her, far as he can tell. “That’s _prostitution_.”

“Christ, woman, don’t waste ‘em.” Murphy nabs the cigarette right back, lights up again and sticks it safely between his teeth. “And I think you’re being a bit too loose with the word _prostitution_ there.”

“You think so? What’re we gonna do back at my place, huh, play Scrabble?”

“Sure we can.” He nods, leans back a bit to check out her arse. “But only if you take your top off.”

Beth snorts, but there’s no hiding the twitch of her lips. She swats him with the dish towel — looks like the same one she’d used to mop him up after she’d spilled that Guinness on him two-odd months ago — then shakes her head as she walks off. “You’re a pain in my butt.”

“Good a place to be a pain as any,” Murphy calls at her retreating back. Reckons she’d’ve flipped him off for that one if she weren’t on the clock, but as it is she just ignores him instead.

No matter. He watches the swing of her braid as she shakes her head some more. Fucking thing’s got him well hypnotized.

And he _said_ he wasn’t looking at her, but Beth had called that for the bullshit it is; ‘course he’s fucking looking at her. Doesn’t stop, either, just spins idly back and forth in his stool, following her about the pub, and sucks on the filter of his Carroll’s the way he’d sucked on her clit not even an hour ago. Not like he’s got anything better to do at the moment — or any moment, come to think of it.

So his eyes track the steps of her worn suede cowboy boots. He hadn’t had the chance in the bathroom, but he makes a mental note to have her keep those on when he fucks her sometime — because there’s gonna be _plenty_ of fucking times, and he’d like for those heels to dig marks into his back a time or two. Wouldn’t mind a twinge of back pain if it means he’d fucked Beth into his mattress.

Or hers, depending. Her place is closer to McGinty’s, after all, and he means to take her home after every one of her shifts from here on, besides. Any which way, though, it’s not as if Murphy’s picky about where he gets to fuck this girl. Point is that he _gets to_ , and he’s not in any position to be making demands when he’s got what he wanted.

What he _wanted_ — what he’d been fucking near begging for for weeks on end now — was Beth, and those marks he left on her legs are proof that he’s had her once. And his stubborn arse of a disposition says he’ll have her again, too.

His eyes flick to and fro between those hickeys, as noticeable as he’d meant them to be — one above her knee and the other higher up, riding that line of muscle in her thigh that had flexed around his ear when he’d been up her cunt.

Yeah — he takes a long drag of his cigarette, swallows down the smoke and the lingering taste of her pussy — she’d liked that, hadn’t she? His lips quirk around the cig at the thought, because that’s another guarantee he’ll have her again, too. Even better than his own hotheaded determination is the fact that Beth wants him just as bad.

He’s such a fucking goner that whatever she says, goes, no question about it. He’s not even a bit pissed about it, either.

Hasn’t let himself think about what that means — has jerked himself off plenty just thinking about her, period, but aside from those fantasies he’s left well enough alone. Only…

_Well._

Murphy ashes his cigarette, watches the pub lights catch in Beth’s hair, in the gold chain that peeks out from beneath her collar. Now that this thing — fine, his _wee crush_ , to hear Connor tell it — has actually come to something that’s not just Murphy desperately wishing that it would, there’s been a crack in his refusal to think on his fucking _feelings_.

For as much time as he spends thinking about Beth, you’d think his feelings wouldn’t be so easy to stamp down. And they _hadn’t_ been, not really, it’s just that Murphy wouldn’t lend any thought to them — no words or fucking _self-examination_ or shit like that, because fuck that.

It was sort of the same as when he and Connor had felt the same pull to clean up the streets of Boston, the Lord’s word, a call from God, all that. He just accepted it for what it was, because what’s the fucking point in mulling this shit over when you know what’s got to be done? Just do the fucking thing already, Christ, they haven’t got the time to sit around and piss and moan about it. Haven’t got the patience for it, either.

Connor would say his brother’s done a right fair share of pissing and moaning over Beth, though, and maybe that’s true, but Murphy’s not going to think about that, either. He’d just tell him to fuck off, same as usual, and Connor wouldn’t give a fuck because he’d said his piece by then and he’s happy to let Murphy stew in that shit.

Which… Fine. What the fuck ever.

“Hey.” Beth’s voice snaps him out of it, sweet breath tickling his ear. Makes him fucking _shiver_ , that, and she’s got to feel it when she cups a hand over his shoulder, ring and pinky fingers curling around his rosary beads. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” He blows a stream of smoke the other way before he turns to grin at her, nearly bumping their noses, she’s so close. “Yeah, love, never better. Or, y’know…”

He tilts his head, and they’re so close to kissing he’s got half a mind to just go ahead and do the damn thing. “Suppose I did better locked in the loo with you. Fancy giving that another go?”

She rolls her eyes, flicks his ear and smirks when he swears. “I’m _workin’_.”

“You were working twenty minutes ago, too.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen the light.” She rubs her thumb along the rosary beads she can reach, her bracelets bumping his neck and making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on edge. Not unlike the interested twitch of his cock, matter of fact. “Catholics know all about that, don’t they?”

“Aye, we do.” His cigarette’s smoldering down near the tip, but Murphy’s too preoccupied by the shape of Beth’s smile to pay it much mind. “You ought to read Song of Songs sometime, you know. You’ll see where I get it from.”

“Sounds like trouble.”

“You think that’s bad, you should try Revelations, too.”

Beth laughs. “I’ve heard of that one. Think I’ll pass. I got enough problems without worryin’ about all that.”

Murphy frowns. “That so?”

“Don’t look at me like that, now.” Her face softens, and he can’t tell if it’s gently or if it’s to shut him out again that way she does. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

Before he can push it to find out, though, Beth’s dropping a kiss to the frown line between his eyebrows. She must really want him to drop it, if she’s not worried about something like that when anyone could catch them. Or, more like, not worried about her state of professionalism or whatever shit a good proper girl like her’s likely to worry about.

Either way, he’s fucking useless beneath the press of those pretty pink lips, so what the fuck else is he supposed to do other than whatever she wants?

“Alright,” he relents, because they can talk about it later. Squeezes her hip. “Get the fuck back to work, then, before I get my hands on your arse.”

That gets another laugh for him, and then Beth’s stepping out of his personal space before he can make good on feeling her up. Fucking _damn it_.

“Yes, sir, Mr. MacManus,” Beth says, with an air of utmost seriousness — or almost, if it weren’t for the giggle she’s got to bite back, but there’s a near-on _painful_ twitch up against Murphy’s zipper regardless. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten, love,” Murphy tries to coax her, for all the fucking good it’ll do.

Probably not much, but at least it keeps her smiling.

“Fifteen,” she sing-songs back at him, and she’s off again to refill some other bastard’s pint glass.

Well, that’s all fine and good, Murphy supposes as he watches her go, because he’ll look at her as often as he fucking pleases, thanks. She’s not about to take his money aside from any outrageous tip he stuffs into her hand, so he figures she’s got to make a living ‘til he can convince her otherwise.

Ah, well. He’lll get there.

He lights up another Carroll’s, and his gaze drops again to the bruise he left on her inner thigh, nice and visible when she puts one foot in front of the other. It’s well on its way to a deep shade of purple already — a fact which makes Murphy’s mouth kick up into another self-satisfied grin, because he kissed her well and bloody _good_ — and it’s shaped a bit, he thinks, like a mottled sort of heart.

And, much as he didn’t think he could handle it, the thing is, actually, that Murphy finds that he doesn’t mind it.

Nah, he thinks when Beth catches his eye again, when Beth _smiles_ at him. He doesn’t mind a fucking bit.

* * *

Connor doesn’t know who the fuck his brother thinks he’s fooling — stupid arsehole’s been up-the-wall bloody _obvious_ all night — but, then, Murphy’s been drooling over the girl for months now, which is a right side longer than either of them are known to keep after anything, so Connor can understand if the man’s well and truly cracked by now.

About fucking time, though. The other day AC/DC came on the radio and, hand to God, no sooner had he heard _“knockin’ me out with those American thighs”_ and then Murphy’d slammed the table and shouted, “IT’S A SIGN FROM GOD” clear across the flat so Connor could hear him.

The square footage isn’t much to speak of, but. Still. Shit like that’s why Connor prefers not to get drunk at home. But that’s what he gets for doing shots at two P.M. on a Sunday, and he’s just going to have to live with it.

He’s at the other end of the pub, in the middle of a game of darts with some of the fellas, and it hadn’t escaped his notice when Murphy had shrugged off an invite to join. Seems like he’d rather stare after Beth everywhere she goes.

Not like Connor could blame him, really, especially after that nasty motherfucker pawed at her a couple weeks back. Girl needs an eye looking out for her, and Murphy’s are _all_ for her, aren’t they?

That’s something. 

The next time Amy passes through with refills, Connor catches her by the elbow. Uses his free hand to point out the scene at the bar.

“What d’you reckon?” he asks her, as Murphy quite fucking obviously eyes Beth’s arse and she doesn’t seem to mind it. There’s a whole lot of _something_ there, too, and turns out Amy agrees with him. 

She rolls her eyes. “ _Finally_ , is what I think. Beth’s been mooning over the guy for weeks.”

“Has she, now?” Color his interest piqued, if only because he can use this information to give his brother hell for the foreseeable future. “So’s Murph. Been bloody insufferable.”

“Please. Try convincing Beth the guy she’s into likes her back, _then_ I’ll feel sorry for you.”

“What, she couldn’t tell he’s fucking obsessed with her?”

He only gets a shrug for that. “It’s like I said before, she’s going through it. I’ve known Beth a long time. Believe it or not, ‘cause she’s the sweetest person you’re ever gonna meet, but she’s had a rough time.”

Amy shrugs, tucks her hair behind her ear as she thinks it over. “And, y’know, sometimes it’s hard to believe something good’s gonna happen to you when all you ever get for it is shit.”

Huh. Murphy might be interested to know some of that, Connor thinks. He files it away, just in case, and takes a swig of beer before turning his attention back to Amy.

“She have a bad breakup or something?”

“Nah, it’s not that.” Amy shakes her head, laughs a little but not with much humor to match. “Listen, you give a good tip and all, but I’m not gonna tell you her business. That’s up to her.”

“Ah, go on, then.” Connor elbows her in the ribs, just a bit, and winks. “Could give you more than a good tip, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Oh, ha ha.” Amy snorts, bats his hand away before loading up her tray of used glasses. “That’s worse than the lines your brother’s used on Beth. Y’all got some major room for improvement.”

She ends her little shut-down with a lofty middle finger, which makes Connor bark out a laugh. “Give a man a chance, would you?”

“Not even one in hell,” she says, just as lofty as that middle finger had been. She walks off with the tray on her hip, her free hand giving a careless wave over her shoulder as she goes.

Christ, that woman could kick his arse and Connor thinks he might thank her for it. He’s beginning to see the appeal of what Murphy’s been on about with Beth. Must be some sort of southern charm thing.

Well. Anyway. He shakes his head, gets his eyes off the sway of Amy’s hips as she heads back to work. He’ll think about that later, bet that girl’s fine arse he will. For now, though…

 _Now_ , Beth’s shrugging on her jacket and Murphy’s hopped off his stool with enough enthusiasm to send the thing toppling. It doesn’t, but it’s a near enough thing that Connor noticed it from across the pub.

He snorts into his pint, but he’s not the only one watching. Couple of fellas he’s playing darts with are in on this bet about when Murphy’d nut up and get some, or whether he would at all, so they’ve got a vested interest. All of ‘em are about to lose their money, too.

 _That’s_ made clear when Murphy tugs on Beth’s sleeve, and slips his hand down to interlace their fingers as they head out the back door.

Think they’re being fucking clever, do they? Connor shouts out another laugh as his mates groan over a sorry defeat, right in tune with the creak of the door’s hinges.

“And that’s _game_ , motherfuckers!” He whoops, claps his hands together. “My brother’s gone home with the waitress. Pay the fuck up, now, go on.”

They do, mostly goodnaturedly, because the truth is it’s fucking funny how long it took Murphy to get his shit together. People’ll pay anything for a good laugh.

Connor’s feeling well chuffed himself, though he does hope Murphy takes Beth back to her place rather than theirs. Bastard’s got so much pent-up energy over the girl, chances are the pair of them are gonna fuck the headboard straight through the wall. Reasonable enough, only Connor’d like to get their security deposit back eventually.

They’ll see what they see, he supposes, and joins their mates in a good _Cheers!_ to the fact that his stupid fuck of a brother’s off to get laid.

And by the woman of his fucking dreams, too, how about that shit? Maybe the Lord does work in mysterious ways, after all.


End file.
